


Glóaming of the Gods

by kamikaze43v3r



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action/Adventure, Fantasy, Gen, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Mythology References, Old Norse, Pagan Gods, Plot, References to Norse Religion & Lore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-11-08 11:12:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17980238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamikaze43v3r/pseuds/kamikaze43v3r
Summary: The Vanir had once been able to serve directly under the gods as they were their direct creation. But as time trickled by, they have become mere Menn and are left with just a thread of connection. They are now believed to have been abandoned by the Gods while they are being hunted by Speglun - malevolent, skeletal manifestations of Menn's negative hearts.Mysteries of the past connecting to the present. The Silent Dark that spilled more of those malicious creatures unto the world, and the Deafening Dark that blinded and silenced Menn into death and chaos. The Ashened Giant that emerged from the meteor said to be one of the God's wrath. The abandoned child who is now the Crown Heiress to the Imperial Throne of Eldia. How do these incidents connect with each other?Alar had not expected a simple but suspicious job to lead him to meeting two mysterious figures who call themselves the Eyes of Odinn.A reimagination of the classic Old Norse tale of Ragnarok.





	1. 01.01

**Author's Note:**

> Been working on this story since probably five years ago? Had been fascinated with Old Norse mythology and its most famous tale and applied my existing original characters to it for my own personal spin. Thanks for giving me a chance and clicking on this story. Hope I don't bore you! 
> 
> This story still a work in progress, so many major edits may be done over posted chapters to fix plot holes etc. Updates may take a while too. Feedback for this first original work of mine will be very much appreciated!!

Alar fiddles with the small box in his palm. He sips at his mead absent mindedly, but his brown eyes are fixed on the package that he’s toying with on the countertop. The barkeep glances at him briefly, but goes on to tend to the other customers. The bustle of the tavern goes about without Alar’s notice, too occupied with the package in his hold.

It’s a small, plain box, dark teal in colour, rectangular in shape and is held together with a leather string. Upon closer inspection, intricate runes are carved on all faces of the box, but it’s clearly meant not to be noticeable. It’s magically sealed, but it’s appearance is insignificant enough for anyone to not take a second glance. 

But Alar knows it’s a package that’s more important than one would think. He knows Brynjar’s gotten him in something deeper than he’s led it to be. Acting as a courier is a side job Alar does sometimes. He’s retired from the Eldian Imperial army thanks to his knee injury, so this job was rather similar and therefore suitable. A mercenary courier usually entails some protection of a package while delivery, and most of the work allows him to go at his own pace. Occasionally he’s had to work in bigger groups to protect a transport wagon or caravan, but most of the time he prefers smaller packages that has lower danger. He can handle a bit of bandits or thieves trying to swipe a package, but this particular job, however, sets him on edge.

Everything about it feels off. From Brynjar’s subtly insistent coaxing to accept the job, the overly casual premise of the delivery, the runes on the package and the location of the drop point - they were highly suspicious.

Brynjar has an official post as the legate of the Baronet. They may have been brothers-in-arms from the same Templar Company years before, but this job was just too sudden and odd. Alar isn’t an expert, but he knows these runes aren’t any simple lock. They’re far more complicated and advanced. Even hammering the small box with a sword or throwing it from the edge of a cliff would not leave a scratch on its surface. This sort of magic would involve the use of a powerful magus, and most of them are have been conscripted into the Imperial army or are registered scholars. The package lacked any of the Empire’s emblem, so it was most likely the work of a foreign hand, or done illegally by an unregistered expert. 

It sounded like an easy job though, and to be honest, the money for it was just a little too good. Unfortunately, low danger jobs means lower pay, so Alar had been baited by the promise of more pay for a seemingly easier job.  _ Just bring the package to a drop point in the Grand District _ , Brynjar had said.  _ You’d mostly be traversing through the Grand District, no one would dare to attack you there. _

The issue that stood out to Alar is that the drop point is at a blind spot not far from the Imperial Palace. His Watchguard buddies had admittedly told him they don’t patrol that area so much. Why would Brynjar, a legate under the Empire, have a hold on such an item? Why would he be delivering such packages discreetly like some shady criminal? It isn’t his place to question his clients, and Brynjar had already deposited a decent amount of money to him as pay, but Alar would hate to be involved in anything big.

This package must contain something far more important than one would like to lead it to be.

He doesn’t  _ really  _ have that much loyalty with the Eldian Empire, nor does he think this package might actually have to do with the Imperial family, but…

A sudden slap to his back startles Alar. He instinctively reaches for the gauntlet on his left arm but relaxes immediately when he remembers where he is. He looks up at the culprit who’s smiling sheepishly at him. Alar stuffs the box in one of his belt pouches discreetly while giving an exasperated glare at his friend.

“Looking nervous there, old friend. Did’ja do something bad?” Indri laughs and takes a seat beside Alar who huffs and runs a hand through his cropped brown hair. He straightens up and orders another glass of mead for him. Indri’s grin widens and slaps his back again, his particular bad habit.

“Done with your shift?” Alar responds, completely ignoring his friend’s previous question. Indri is a Watchguard of the Eldian Empire’s Capital City Arinn. The job scope is more of a peacekeeper and mediator of sorts, rather than a formal guard. Arinn, while a bustling city of commerce, boasts a rather low violence rate. Petty crimes such as thievery and scams are still rather high, but violence is rather low compared to other large cities in Eldia. The constant civil wars that had plagued the land for a while had exhausted the people, and no one had the energy or desire to act out more violence. Most disagreements involve simple brawls and shouting matches, so the Watchguards are dispatched to mediate and keep the peace in a pacifist manner. It had been the order of the Iron Empress anyway, so all had to obey.

Alar had considered joining them after his injury, but it was still a rather rigorous occupation for his knee. In addition to that, Alar would also have to follow orders. He makes a face at the thought, reminded of the captain Alar and Brynjar were serving under back during their days in the Imperial Army. And that bastard had the misguided luck and went on to become a Baronet and Brynjar’s boss. Alar had teased Brynjar about his misfortune whenever they met up.

Indri takes a long swig of his mead and slams the glass down with a satisfied sigh. He nods and licks his lips, wiping at his beard. “Yep, been a long day. Some official got murdered but it caused a bit of a stir.”

“What about it?” Alar rests his chin on his palm, vaguely interested. Aside from Brynjar’s suspicious job offer, there hasn’t been any other news. Murders are not exactly common nowadays, but for an Imperial official to be murdered was another thing.

“No traces of anything. Just blood and a dead man in his bedroom. No struggle, no broken locks, or windows. Everything was locked from the inside,” Indri recounts thoughtfully. “It’s like whoever killed him appeared and disappeared within the room.” He sips at the mead again, drinking slower this time. “You don’t think it could be a Speglun, could it?” Indri shuddered at the possibility, but Alar dismisses it immediately.

“Impossible. There hasn’t been a Speglun within the city for years. We’ve got the Templars and Divines, and even the Goddess’ Chapel to keep those things out,” Alar huffs. Indri raises his hands defensively, though similarly, the possibility of that has him shuddering too.

In this world, there are many realms. One of them is Firarheim, where mortals such as Menn, flora and fauna exist. Another is Spegillheim, where creatures called Speglun dwell. They are supernatural beings of malice without their own individual shape or identity, their appearance a mere crystallized skeletons with horns upon their skulls. It is said that the Speglun were created out of the darkness of Menn’s hearts, and so they bore all negative feelings and directed them to Menn themselves. They are greedy, contemptuous, and envious of Menn and the mortals of Firarheim. Compared to Speglun, Menn are naturally inferior and for the Speglun, therefore Menn are the perfect prey. These creatures may feed on one’s willpower, negative thoughts, identity, memories, or they would simply consume everything by devouring their souls and physical bodies.

Alar has had some experience fighting these creatures back when he was a Hallowed Templar. They were a terrifying race and their entire company had lost nearly half of their ranks fighting just one of them, and it was a mere Pawn class. Hallowed Templars and Divine Blades and Divine Magi are specialized classes in countering the invasion of these creatures which may appear anywhere where the barriers between realms are weak. Some of these creatures may wander about and may find their way into villages. But they’ve always been taught and assured that the Speglun will never step into the Capital City with the blessings of goddess Jord and her Chapel.

“You’re right, I shouldn’t be saying such ominous things,” Indri replies apologetically. “It’s just, the feeling in the air has been rather down lately, did’ja notice? Ever since the Heiress fell ill, we haven’t seen her lovely face that can calm our hearts. Ahh, our beloved Lady!” Indri wails as he downs another gulp of his mead, throwing a dirty look at Alar’s exasperated head shake.

“Anyway, it just feels bad lately. Not to mention that strange light coming from the Palace that other night!” 

Alar frowns in question, perking up slightly. “What light?”

“You didn’t see it? Ah right, it was in the middle of the night so not many people know about it. There was a pillar of light that cloaked the Palace a few nights ago. It was only for a short time, but the light was so bright I swear on Jord’s bosoms I went blind at the time!” the bearded Watchguard rubbed at his eyes as if to prove his point. Alar doesn’t recall seeing or hearing anything about such an event. But then again, he was most likely had been asleep and he doesn’t keep up with gossips or news as of late.

“The Watchguards were talking about it for a while, but the higher ups just hushed us up. The older guards were muttering about the incident a century ago, but when asked they shut their mouths for some reason. Whatever stories they had, it would have made our guard duties a bit more entertaining,” Indri complains.

“You mean the Deafening Dark?” Alar inquires. He’s heard of that event as well. It was the moment that the entire realm was affected, and a majority of wars throughout the land were ended. He remembers learning that it was actually a calamity, causing an entire kingdom in Solveig continent to be wiped out, giving way to the current empire.

But Alar isn’t too interested in the past. It was possible that the Court Magus may have just let off some magical accident that caused the light. He asks about the strange murder instead, “So about that murder, any clues?”

Indri appears to agree with Alar, responding to the return of the earlier topic. He gulps down the last of his mead, ”Someone suggested it’s a hit job targeting the Baronet’s subordinates. There’s been rumors the Baronet’s been involved in some bribery scandal. The poor sod’s the second one dead in the past month.”

“The Baronet?” Alar tenses and looks to Indri. There are a lot of baronets in the city, so he shouldn’t be worrying. But he has heard of those rumours. Brynjar had lamented to him about their scummy former captain a couple of times. Bribery scandals would not be a farfetched lie. “You happen to know the name of the person who got offed?”

Indri orders some stew and more mead from the passing barkeep before turning back to Alar. “Hm? I’m not really sure, but he’s one of the Baronet’s envoys. Bjorn or something.” The barkeep serves Indri a plate of bread with a bowl of stew and tops up his beverage after some time. She wordlessly asks Alar if he needs another glass. He declines.

Bjorn. He doesn’t know anyone by that name, right? Alar nervously gulps while Indri chows down his dinner.

“Oh yeah,” Indri suddenly adds, busily chewing while talking with his mouth full. “That Baronet was your former captain I think. The one ya said hated your guts? And the one your friend had to work under?” Indri continues to chew on the bread, then abruptly stops. He swallows down his food and quickly mutters an apology, suddenly looking sheepish and awkward as if he just realized something. He shifts his gaze, not daring to look Alar in the eye. “Dagar’s beard, Alar. I think… I think the poor sod’s your friend.”

Alar stares at Indri blankly, as if processing the information. He doesn’t respond but nods. Indri tries to comfort him, having realized his insensitive remarks earlier but Alar waves him off with a strained smile and gets up to leave the tavern. He doesn’t say a word as Indri watches him leave with a guilty frown.

Alar quickly walks down the cobbled street, passing by brick buildings and stone houses. Compared to the stuffy air of the tavern, the outdoors is cool and comfortable, but it has done little to calm Alar’s nerves. He taps on the communication crystal on his wrist. A simple flat and thin crystal block embedded within a thin leather band, but it holds magic that allows the user to communicate, display, or store information within it. A screen of light appears over the crystal. Alar taps a couple of buttons on it, attempting to reach out to Brynjar to check. After numerous attempts and no responses, Alar gives up. He tries to contact their mutual friends as well, but for some reason, no one answers his calls either, which bothers him.

Instead, a message comes through, the text displayed on the flat crystal screen: “ _ Watch the crows. _ ”

It’s an anonymous message. Alar reflexively looks up to darkening skies but sees no signs of any life. Perhaps it’s just a prank by one of his friends, Alar attempts to convince himself. Yet the dreadful feeling within him rapidly rises and Alar speeds up his pace, trying to shake it off.

It’s dusk, and the markets and stalls are closing. The Urban District begins to quiet down once the sun sets since everyone is eager to rest after a day’s work. Where the Grand District is wealthy, the Urban District is not. It’s the part of the Capital City where the commoners reside. Slums are hidden in the corners, but the majority of the District is stable, with proper housing and roads. Crime is higher here compared to the other two Districts, and encounters with muggers and cutpurses who prowl the streets are commonplace after dark. Alar can easily look after himself, but it’s not them that he’s worried about.

Could Brynjar’s murder have something to do with the package?

Alar books a room in one of the cheaper inns. When he’s on the job, he doesn’t stay in one place so that it’s easy to avoid being targeted. Now he’s barely returned to his own home in the Burgesse District, which is possibly accumulating cobwebs. After his only living relative had passed, Alar hadn’t stayed still for a long time, feeling rather restless in an empty home, so this sort of work and wandering lifestyle suits him well.

He enters his rented room and takes off his jacket. The left sleeve had been cut short at the elbow to accommodate space for his gauntlet. It’s a sleek, custom-made gear, created to store his weapons whenever he needs to use them. He strips that off too and changes to his undergarments, leaving his upper body bare. His lack of vigorous training and constant drinking had left him rather flabby and a little pot-bellied, but there are still traces of muscle from his time in the army. His pecs are still hard, his biceps still bulging with power but his belly has softened from the alcohol and indulgence in sweeter foods. His body is littered with faded scars and scrapes while, his complexion is dusky and freckled from training in the sun. He’s maintained his hairstyle from back then as it’s easier, slightly shaggy but short brown hair with natural ginger roots. Alar also has an unusually tall stature compared to the locals due to his lineage, making him stand out. To be honest, Alar can present a rather intimidating figure, if not for his droopy eyes and slightly rounded face.

Alar is confident in his combat skills. He was a Hallowed Templar in the Imperial Army, served in the Red Wall Company and has experience fighting against the fearsome Speglun before. He was involved in the last civil war as well, but it hadn’t escalated into a full blown war yet, so it wasn’t as bad and he hadn’t been deployed for skirmishes. Similarly, Brynjar had been in the same company, and that man was admittedly more skilled than him. Yet he’d died. His gut leaves him with a queasy feeling, and the walk to the inn had already left him sweaty from his nerves. Alar looks at the belt pouch that has the magically sealed package. He stares at the runes and wistfully hopes it has nothing to do with Brynjar’s death. He takes it and chucks it under his pillow as he laid his head on it. A simple and almost childish tactic, but it’ll be much easier to detect anything.

Alar is usually not this paranoid, but he is unable to help himself this time. His trusted gut instinct is telling him that something bad is going to happen. He resists his urge to pace about the room and settles himself on the bed instead, the soft and cheap pillow a little bulky due to the package underneath it.

He sighs and tries not think about the delivery job which he has to complete tomorrow. At the least, he should drop this thing off and wash his hands clean of it. Hopefully, whatever misfortune will go away along with it. 

Alar doesn’t realize he’s exhausted, falling into a deep sleep within seconds. His slumber leaves him unaware that the package under his pillow had begun to glow. The runes around it glitters and the leather string around it unfurls like a snake. The box opens, and a tendril of black fog creeps out from within.


	2. 01.02

Gan has a secret. He has an imaginary friend… Sort of. A rather  _ unique _ friend.

But he’s not sure what they are.

They are not a lost, wandering Drauma, souls of the deceased. They are not a malicious creature like the Speglun. They are not even a figment of his own imagination nor has he lost his mind. At least, he’s sure of that.

He has done countless research at the library, at the Cathedral, the temples of other gods, and has asked his mentors and the priests. Even within himself when he sleeps, he meditates and searches the cosmos with his magic. All his sources have given him different answers, but none of them fit this friend whom he speaks to on a yearly basis.

Since young, he has had this friend reach out to him. His first memory of them had been quite strange. He remembers that he was playing by a pond at the orphanage and observing Drauflies. Always been the quiet one, the odd one out, the child no one could understand. So it was the norm for him to be by himself, staring at whatever caught his fascination. So when one of these Drauflies glowed the brightest blue as compared to the normal soft glow of a usual Draufly and called out to him in a strange voice, Gan was stunned. He did not know if there were animals which can converse in Menntala, the universal speech of Menn, but from what he’s learned and been taught, there were no such things. 

It had scared him at first, and Gan remembers wanting to step back but felt his body was frozen. However, the voice was friendly even though it sounded odd, and it still took on the appearance of a normal Draufly no bigger than the length of his finger, despite its bright illumination. There was something about it that gave him a sense of familiarity as well. It was like he knew them, or seen them before. Gan relaxed eventually, and the Draufly came to rest upon a lilypad in front of him and they continued to speak.

Since then, this strange friend has appeared before him in a variety of ways. He notices that it has to be at night when the moon is full and there should be a body of water where Drauflies dwell. From then on, Gan knows when to anticipate the visits.

It’s almost time for one such visit. It had been a year since the last, and the current night boasts a full moon with clear skies, barely a cloud in sight. The moon is large and it hovers right over the the lake like an eye in the cast night sky. Drauflies begin to illuminate the shore, the warm soft glow of their light giving off the feel of quiet calmness. The landscape is beautiful and breathtaking. Across the lake from where Gan stands, Mount Jotunnag towers over the nameless jungles of the Navnlos island ring. The reflection on the moon is flat, the surface of the water tranquil. 

Everything slows to a standstill as silence envelops the surroundings. Gan can hear his own breathing. He feels like he’s placed in a vacuum, floating in nothingness. A normal person would be terrified of such silence and stillness, but Gan has encountered this numerous times since young. He’s not afraid.

Gan steps forward to the edge of the water. It splashes softly against his bare feet, but the sound is muffled. The water is cold yet welcoming. The surrounding Drauflies hover within their spot, the light of their glowing bodies flickering gently whilst their quadruplet wings flutter without a sound. Gan faces the lake in anticipation, eyes trained on the lunar reflection.

The reflection begins to glow brighter. Slowly, the surface of the water builds. At the same time, it appears as if the moon is dripping. A white mass of light and the reflection of the moon on the water reach towards each other before they break off from their source, creating a single round mass of light. The mass of light is corporeal yet not, like a dense cloud. Its shape shifts and varies, sometimes vaguely taking the shape of a figure. 

This is his Friend.

His Friend approaches him, slow and languid, gliding over the surface of the lake. Gan waits patiently. He hears their voice greet him, sounding neither male or female, and sometimes of both, of one voice and of many different voices melded together. It feels familiar and comforting, and he’s realized that they speak within his mind, not to his ears. 

Gan has never been able to place the strange tongue his Friend speaks in. It sounds utterly otherworldly, and having tried to mimic them, he finds that he’s unable to, as if Menn’s physical body is incapable of creating such sounds. He wonders how he’s able to understand their speech.

“My friend,” the mass of light says. “It has been a while.” 

_ Friend _ , they call him. But Gan doesn’t know this being and has never recognised them as anyone he knows throughout the years. 

Gan wishes he is able to reply, but he is unable to speak, whether out of the language barrier or the incapability of his body to even move within this state, he is unsure. He can only smile in response, and he thinks his Friend smiles back at him understandingly.

His Friend talks, while Gan listens and he doesn’t mind it at all. Instead, he finds it very nostalgic and calming. In every visit, both of them do the same thing. His Friend regales him with fantastical stories of colourful characters, of wild beasts and terrifying creatures reeking of hatred and treachery. But never once did they state a name for each of the characters, yet Gan feels like he can identify each one. He knows there is a titan, and from the titan there are others that were borne from it. Two wolves and the titan’s children.

Gan’s fingers itch to write, as if wanting to record the words his Friend speaks, but he can barely move within this period of time. And so he listens and commits them to memory, hoping to write them down later. As he listens, he imagines the stories, staring at the star filled skies, picturing the characters dancing amongst the stars. Each twinkle of a star as if the clash of steel during their battles, a shooting meteor a swift strike from a character onto another, or the milky way as a gathering of all the characters for a feast.

Gan smiles at the sky. The stories feel so close yet so far away. Has he heard these stories before? Or even seen them with his own eyes? His orange eyes gaze deeper into the cosmos, his breathing slow and steady. It feels like he’s being whisked away by the narration, almost like in a trance. Eventually he closes his eyes before blinking them open and turns to his Friend who appears to be observing him. 

Gan wishes he can ask them directly.  _ Who are you? Are all these stories your memories? A forgotten past? _

His Friend appears to smile knowingly despite the lack of features. They approach closer, until almost all of Gan’s vision is full of white light. With his Friend this close, the feeling Gan gets from its presence is overwhelming, so much so that he almost can’t breathe. His eyes sting, as if the sight of the light is burning them, unable to hold their visage.

In the back of his head, he remembers having read about this. That the eyes of mortals cannot withstand the visage of gods as they are too powerful. In the past, the first of Menn, the Vanir, had once been able to serve directly under the gods as they were their direct creation, but as time trickled by, the connection weakened, and Menn is left with just a thread of connection. Even then, from what was learned from their ruins, the Vanir could only just glance at the gods as well, unable to keep their eyes on them for too long.

But that was in the past. Now, Menn are believed to have been left by the gods, their ability to stand with their creators and contain their presences almost completely disappeared. Gan already has his eyes shut, blinking away tears of mild agony from the burning light. A ridiculous thought comes across his mind.

Can it be…? That’s ludicrous, he chides himself.

Gan has never been a believer. In Isfridr, while they are a republican and secular state, the citizens are still mostly faithful. The city-state balances between the secular and the religious, with the entire island separated into different sectors: Craft, Creed, Crest and Circle. Crest and Creed Sectors hold the primary god of the island in high regard, with The Cathedral of Mana has thousands of devotees flocking to it for prayers of wealth, fortune or safety. There are also temples for the other gods, so there is no shortage of faith and religion in his childhood. His best friend Blaer worships Nott, the god of Night, Darkness and Passion, which reflects in his love for poetry and music. But Gan himself finds that he doesn’t feel any connection with them. Perhaps, having been exposed the most to Isfridr’s primary god, or it’s merely that he has affinity with what this god represents, but if Gan  _ were _ a believer, he would follow Mani, the Lord of the Moon, Sea and Secret Knowledge.

His Friend makes a sound much like a chuckle, and for some reason Gan feels embarrassed. He knows his Friend has read his mind, but they make no response or acknowledgment to it, much to his disappointment.

The night continues despite the standstill, but his Friend’s visit has always been brief. The glow of the Drauflies dims and Gan knows it’s time for them to part. The creature of light begins to glide away back towards the lake, but it stops short and seemingly turns back to Gan.

In that moment, the light takes up a slightly more solidified shape, and Gan thinks he sees a pair of long legs stepping over the water surface as it approaches him once more. Closer, and closer, until it is almost touching its nose. Gently, a wisp of cloudy light reaches out and brushes over his cheek. It was momentary but Gan felt that it was cool and comfortable.

His Friend moves away as they bid goodbye once more with another smile. They speak one last time.

“Goodbye, Mimir.”

The light fades and dissipates. The Drauflies dim and disappear.

Gan feels the night move again breeze brush across his skin again and hears the rustling of the leaves. Gan lets out a wistful exhale. Although he can move again, he doesn’t step away from his spot. He stares at the moon in deep thought, his mind working from the words his Friend had left him with. 

That… that was a name… Gan mouths the word, realizing how it rolls off his tongue easily and with familiarity. He knows that name, but from where? And what is the reason for his Friend to present him with that name now? 

He wishes his Friend’s visits are longer. Even if he can’t move during their visits, maybe eventually they will tell him everything, but each time their visits are short, as if on a limit. It feels like Time is never their ally. 


	3. 01.03a

An Imperial entourage consisting of a luxurious looking carriage with five mounted knights accompanying it on each side is making its way to the next nearest city. As the carriage passed, the observing commoners whisper among themselves, guessing who could be in the cabin. Farmers settled in the fields between cities often see similar groups passing by, but as a form of entertainment, they tend to gossip and talk about what possible businesses these nobles might have. With a glance, while the entourage is impressive, it is the standard retinue for an official, so nothing looked out of the ordinary. The carriage itself, while luxurious, is not as impressive or grand as the official Imperial ceremonial carriage of the Empress. However, none would expect that The Heiress to the Imperial Eldian Throne is in the very carriage passing by, and is on a journey to the Sol village in the south. 

By right, a larger entourage and high level Imperial guards and magi would be dispatched to accompany her, along with flag bearers and attendants, but as the reason for the trip is meant to be discreet, it was decided that her carriage had to appear more modest so as to not alarm the citizens. While it had been announced that The Heiress will be sent to the Village in the south to rehabilitate and recover from her illness, information is kept secret as to when and where she would be leaving the capital city.

Stjarna Dagne Frei Eldottr slightly raises the curtain at the window of the carriage to peek out. She sees the lush greenery and bright colours of the orchards and farms of her citizens. She smiles to herself, watching in silent appreciation. It is not frequent that the Imperial Heiress is allowed to leave the Palace, much less the Capital City. Stjarna only wishes she is leaving for the proper reason and at a proper time when she is healthy, but at the moment, her purpose of leaving the Palace is to seek aid and advice from the High Priestess in the primary Bethel of the goddess Jord. 

High Priestess Bjarta Hlin Solfastdottr is currently known to the be the wisest in the land. Her divination skills and her alleged ability to be able to contact the gods is known throughout the Solveig continent. With Stjarna’s illness having puzzled scholars, physicians, healers and even the renowned Imperial Court Magus, the Empress had no choice but to ask for the Priestess’ wisdom.

Of course, the Empress had not meant to have her ill daughter make such a long journey to Sol instead of calling the Priestess to the Palace, but Stjarna herself had insisted and made numerous points that did not allow her Imperial Mother to reject her suggestion. It was out of fortune and the blessing of Jord and Dagar that Stjarna had recovered slightly and is able to travel.

However, that isn’t the full story.

Stjarna has had her strange illness for the past year. With fainting spells, hot flashes and her inability to control her magic, there had been many accidents in the Palace surrounding the Heiress. From what experts who have been summoned by the Empress could gather, it appears that the Heiress has a severe case of Contumacious Energy, in which her internal magic is too much for her physical body and begins to consume her from within. Previous cases often leaves the patient weak and lethargic, but in Stjarna’s case, her body is constantly feverish and commonly leaves her falling unconscious from how much energy is being consumed.

It had been known that Stjarna is a magus with great potential ever since she had reached the age of nine. A renown soothsayer had predicted that her potential is limitless, her fate vast and so bright, it is blinding and comparable to the light of the gods. Such words had left the Empire delighted and eager to see where the future Empress would lead them to. Her popularity and charm had already won over the majority of the Imperial citizens since she was a babe. As she grew up, she is endearingly referred to as the Shining Star of Eldia. 

It was only a few weeks ago that her condition had worsened. Stjarna had constant fainting spells and her body temperature had burned to the point that her attendants and even the Empress could not touch her without feeling their skin being singed. She stayed unconscious for longer periods of time and when she woke, she appeared dazed and her magic flared without warning, having set fire to her room more than once that guards and magi had to monitor her throughout the day.

That one night had changed everything.

Stjarna sighs and looks away from the window. It will take a few more hours before they would have to stop and rest for the day. The sky has already began to turn orange, the sun steadily lowering towards the horizon.

The Heiress’ personal guards continue to keep vigilant of their surroundings. It had been a smooth but albeit uninteresting journey so far, which one would accept as a good thing. The guards are dressed as simple cavalry guards, but are actually made up elite Imperial Knights, who are either Divine Blades or Divine Magi trained in both normal skirmishes and combating the fearsome Speglun.

At the front of the carriage leading the entourage is the Knight Captain Rerir Siggson and his Lieutenant Kole Brokson, who are keeping a lookout on the path before them. The Captain is a skilled and experience Divine Blade Master and had reaped some accomplishments in the last civil war. He has served by the Empress’ side for more than two decades and is one of her most trusted aides. His appearance gives off a stern and proper aura, but he is also known to be paternal and responsible towards his subordinates. His long service and merits has his name spread through the army. His lieutenant meanwhile, is a young man almost half the Knight Captain’s age with dark eyes under the visor of the helmet. 

As one of the youngest Knights, Lieutenant Kole Brokson is both admired and respected as it is no easy feat to be included in the ranks of the elite. Furthermore, he’d even advanced from a Hallowed Knight to a Divine Blade within three years. He’s displayed his competency and prowess in missions and battles against Speglun, leading to him being hand-picked by the Empress herself to be part of the Heiress’ personal guard, especially with what had happened to the Heiress that night.

Kole himself is satisfied with his promotion. To serve the Imperial family directly is the most prestigious honor, and as a young man, he still has the desire to claim as many accomplishments as he can. His drive comes from a childhood memory as a boy growing up in Smith’s Brand. That fateful morning, he had skipped out on his chores and went into the nearby forest where he’d met a young boy and a very large man. He remembers the man looking like a seasoned warrior, clad in worn, ragged armour, with a giant axe gleaming in his hand. He’d seen the warrior defeat the fearsome Speglun with one swing of his weapon and from then on, Kole had wanted to be just like him.

He’s thankful to be blessed with talent and skills that had allowed him to advance his ranks fairly easily. He hadn’t known that he had such talent himself and had thought that he would follow the footsteps of his blacksmith father. Perhaps wielding a hammer and wielding a sword isn’t too different? Instead of taking over the family business, Kole had left for Arinn and enlisted himself in the army, leaving that responsibility to his younger brother. His family hadn’t been happy with him, but since Kole had made a name for himself they - or at least his father - had begrudgingly forgiven him. As long as he promises to visit once in a while, his father wouldn’t kick him out.

While prestige and ranks are some things to aim for, in reality, being a Divine entails harsh training and studying. He’d slogged through extreme training and practicing spells that sapped enough of his willpower to leave him sleeping for a week. Having gone to sites with high Speglun activity has also left him mentally hardened. Thankfully, the Speglun appears in less populated areas, but yet numerous lives have still been lost and he’s even seen possessions that has left the victim’s body physically mutilated and others mentally tortured or comatosed. Having once lost many of his skilled peers to merely one Speglun also shows how powerful these creatures are.

Kole hears his Captain stop his horse and sees him turn his head slightly with a raise of his right hand. It’s a signal to stop, and Kole relays the instruction to the rest of the entourage. As the Captain has stopped them suddenly, everyone is immediately tense; it means that something suspicious is in the area.

Someone behind Kole mutters, “Where are the scouts? They should have alerted us…”

The Knight’s sentence is immediately cut off as a throwing dagger is lodged in his throat.

“Magic shields up!” the Captain yells at the Imperial Magi and immediately rallies his Knights with a skill that increases their constitution and willpower. Kole looks around the area. There is only one road with some shrubs, but the treeline of the nearby woods to the left immediately attracts attention. He’s already caught sight of a couple of figures, faces covered and clad in black.

He’s just about to direct some of  the Magi to attack them when four similarly dressed assassins appear out of nowhere. They attempt to pounce onto the carriage but is barred by the magical shield. Unfortunately, as the shields are focused on the carriage, that had left the Magi vulnerable. Before any of them can react, one of the Magi is downed by an assassin tackling him and plunging a dagger in his throat. 

Chaos erupts as more of the figures appear. Kole tries to contact one of the hidden guards and scouts but receives no response, confirming that they’re either killed or completely incapacitated. They are left to fend for themselves without back-up. It’s twenty guards against thirty assassins, and since the Knights are of the elite, it should pose no problem. However, it appears that the other side is also of commendable skill.

Nearly a third of their forces are already down and it’s starting to cast a bleak picture. 


	4. 01.03b

Kole and the other Divine Blades have already dismounted their horses, fighting back on steady ground. The Divine Magi are providing support, casting buffs and shields, while a few designated focus on shielding the carriage. Kole bashes his shield against one assassin and smashes his sword’s pommel against their head to stun them before driving his blade through their chest. Another one down, Kole goes on to assist the others. Captain Rerir skillfully cuts down three assassins from his mount and keeps close to the carriage, deterring any assassin from approaching.

“Your Highness, please breathe,” the accompanying attendant in the cabin with Stjarna holds her up. Stjarna’s symptoms are flaring up again, leaving her hyperventilating and sweating profusely. The chaos outside has suddenly triggered her illness, and the attendant Gna, Stjarna’s closest and trusted attendant, is helpless. She’s already followed the instructions and advice of the Court Magus given to her before they left, but the Heiress’ fever has returned abruptly and burning her up from the inside. She’s already been nearly scorched by the Heiress’ strange illness and magic before, and knows that it is happening again.

The crystals set upon Stjarna’s gloves are glowing as she clenches her fists to hide her trembling. The fire in her is blazing, her body scorching painfully and she can only bite out a few words, “Gna, please refrain from touching me.” Gna nods, obediently withdrawing her hands, but hovers them over her, unsure what to do. Even with her hands over her, Gna can still feel the heat, making Gna nervous. The battle outside appears to be intensifying, and the screams of both the assassins and Imperial Knights fill the heavy silence in the carriage cabin.

The carriage begins to rock violently, as if something is knocked and slammed into the side numerous times. Grunts and pained groans can be heard, but neither of them know whether they are from an ally or foe. Gna withdraws her hidden knife and sticks close to Stjarna, prepared to fight. She may be an attendant, but she had also been trained by order of the Empress. The Empress is a person who values skill and foresight. Protective of her daughter, the Empress has ordered for almost all of the Heiress’ personal attendants to be proficient in self-defence and to train every day. Gna is at least a Baron-ranked Cutthroat, so she should be able to buy the Heiress some time to escape if need be.

Kole and a handful of the other Knights are left, having whittled down the other side’s numbers as well. Morale has improved from their situation, but unbeknownst to them, the Knight Captain has already collapsed. His mount is already dead on its side, throat slashed, with their captain bleeding out on his back in a pool of blood. He is barely breathing but his eyes are still fierce, glaring at the figure by him but it appears as if he is paralyzed, not moving a muscle aside from moving his eyes and his chest heaving. 

“Captain!” Kole rushes towards the offender. How can the Captain fall? The figure immediately side steps and throws a roundhouse kick. Kole blocks it with his shield and counters with a swing of his sword from the side, but the figure vanishes with a cloud of dense smoke.

_ A Deathshade! _

Kole has never fought one, but they should be no different from the lower classed Assassins. His senses warn him of an approaching attack from the back, narrowly parrying it as the Deathshade reappears with another smoke cloud. The other retreats and repeats the same attack pattern. Each time he reappears, more smoke gathers around them until the dark fog is heavily impairing Kole’s vision and even hearing.

It’s too late when Kole realizes he’s been poisoned from the fog. His airways are suddenly clogged and he’s unable to breathe, leaving only a rasping, ragged sound. He only manages to parry another couple of attacks before he’s weak from the lack of breath and is shoved down on his back, the Deathshade’s foot on his chest keeping him in place. The dense smoke clears up, pulled into the Deathshade’s body as if they are part of him and reveals that the rest of the Knights have been defeated. Kole watches with dread as one assassin climbs into the Imperial carriage, followed by the sounds of a scuffle and the cries of the women within.

“Heiress, please escape!” He recognises the voice belonging to the attendant who is always with the Heiress. “Please, don’t-!”

There is the sound of a sharp slap and the thump of a body collapsing. Kole struggles to move, his head hurting as he attempts to force himself, will his muscles to work, but it only backfires as the more he tries, the weaker he feels. The poison is paralyzing every muscle of his body, disallowing him to even let out a sound. Kole fears that the Heiress will be taken, harmed, or simply killed. It would be a devastating blow to the Empire, knowing how loved the Heiress is by not just the Empress but the citizens. He’s sure he would be devastated too, he’s not immune to the compassion the young woman has displayed whenever he sees her. Even though Kole has only interacted with her very briefly through a few words, he has felt the tug of respect and admiration towards the young lady. He can only grit his teeth helplessly as he feels his heart slowing down from the paralysis poison, despair sinking in at the same time.

But his despaired thoughts are interrupted by a blaze that explodes from within the carriage. A burning mass is thrown out from the interior, showing that it’s the assassin who had climbed in early. He’s screaming and struggling to put out the fire by rolling on the ground but the fire acts strangely, clinging stubbornly not just on his clothes but on his skin and hair. Within minutes, his scream dies off to a pathetic whimper and he’s burnt to a black, charred corpse. The Deathshade and the remaining few assassins who are still standing stay rooted where they are, too stunned by the sudden change of events.

They’ve already downed all known Magi in the entourage and the Heiress is too ill, so who could have created such a devastating blow?

Suddenly, the whistle of an arrow pierces through the sky and hits right between the eyes of one assassin. More arrows come forth from within the nearby woods and the sound of a raven’s cries ring through the sky.

_ Reinforcements? _ Kole feels relief, but they hadn’t been able to call for one, and there had been no contact from their advance scouts. Could there have been a survivor who went for aid? But the aid that appear is not what Kole is expecting.

A massive conspiracy of ravens form around them like a swarm of locusts. They fly and swoop past the remaining assassins, some piercing and pecking at them with their beaks, picking at their flesh. For some reason, the ravens remain clear from all the fallen bodies including Kole. The Imperial carriage is untouched too, with Kole having no idea of the Heiress and her attendant’s current status. 

Kole ignores the chaos for the time being and closes his eyes. He pulls on his faith and focuses on an orison, the basic of any trained Divine. His heart, already slowing from the poison, gradually becomes stable as he meditates. His mind clears and his heart stabilizes. Slow, but still beating, hindering the progress of the poison. He collects his faith as he offers his prayer to Dagar and Jord.

His body begins to warm and less numb. The tips of his fingers twitch. Kole opens his eyes. He sees that the remaining assassins and Deathshade are still distracted. Kole presses on and continues to try to move again.

Through the chaos, an expert arrow shoots down the last few standing, leaving only the Deathshade who’s still avoiding both the arrows and ravens using that smokeshifting ability. However, it’s clear that he’s losing stamina. Amongst the ravens, an unidentified figure materializes right by the Deathshade with a plain, wood-handled dagger.

Kole does not recognise who it is. They are dressed in the recognisable style of the Mystics, composed of linen, furs and hide armour fashioned to be light and practical, though one can’t ascertain their gender with the loose clothing and covered face. Decorative and unique floral patterns are printed upon the cloth. A bow and quiver is strapped to their back, making it apparent that they are the one who was responsible for the arrows that killed the remaining assassins. 

The Deathshade glares and bares his teeth in a snarl at the Mystic, clearly incensed by the situation. The Mystic gives no response aside from a simple thrust of their dagger. A fight ensues, the clanging of metal against metal audible even with the shrieks of the ravens. 

While the other two are occupied, it takes Kole some time and a lot of willpower for him to just turn himself onto his stomach. He desperately keeps hold of his calm and breathing, repeating prayers in his head as he painstakingly crawls towards the carriage. “H-Heiress,” Kole rasps weakly and props himself up onto the side, trying to peek in.

He stumbles into the cabin and sees that Gna unconscious, her head and face bleeding and bruised. Her knife is still in her hands, clear that she had fought her hardest. The Heiress herself is sitting up and leaning against the side but she is not in the best condition. Her eyes are half-lidded and her complexion weak and pale, her mouth slighting agape while panting and sweating. She’s burning to the touch as he’s heard from the gossips, but thankfully not hot enough to keep him away. He dares a tentative touch to her hand and slips his fingers to her wrist to feel for her pulse.

“Thank the gods,” Kole mutters when he feels it. She’s breathing a little faster, but it’s steady and means she’s still alive. He’s checked her and finds her to be mostly unharmed, at least visually.

“You are… the Lieutenant..?” the Heiress blinks slowly and looks up to him. Surprisingly, she recognises him. Her voice is small and soft. Kole responds affirmatively and hushes her. They’re not out of the woods yet. There are still two strangers outside fighting, one an assassin sent for the Heiress, the other an unknown. “You’re poisoned.”

“What?” Kole is startled by her sudden comment. How did she know? Her gaze hardens as she observes him. The weakened Heiress disappears momentarily to reveal a determined but concerned woman. She reaches out and touches his temple. Her touch is hot and the warmth seeps through his skin and spreads from his head to the rest of his body. Kole feels the sudden urge to vomit.

He pushes himself away and hurls, a black, sticky substance spilling out from his throat and leaving a white-hot sensation. His body feels as feverish, and just as he finishes emptying his stomach, the scorching sensation disappears just as abruptly as it had arrived. Kole turns back to the Heiress who’s returned to her weakened state. Her eyes are closed now and he realizes she’s asleep.

Did her touch somehow helped to expel the poison from his body?

Kole shakes his head and refocuses. His breathing is back to normal but he still has to check on the situation. He no longer sees the ravens flying outside nor does he hear any fighting. Taking the knife from the attendant’s unconscious grip, Kole prepares to step out.

The sight that greets him when he steps out however,  leaves the Lieutenant speechless.


	5. 01.04

When Alar awakes the following morning, he feels his body aching strangely. He groans and tries to stretch his body only to fall back on his bed. He feels awfully sluggish, and the room is awfully chilly despite the sunlight coming in through the window. He rubs his chilled arms and sits up on the bed. He notices that his belt is on the floor, the belt pouch open and the package slipped out.

A sudden chill runs through him, his eyes fixed on the open box and the unfurled string. The runes around it are dull as if they’ve been deactivated.

“How in Dagar’s beard?!” Alar falls to his hands and knees as he stares at the open box. He curses everything that comes across his mind. How did this happen? He looked to the window and to the door, but nothing seemed to have been tampered. Alar searches the box. It’s open and empty, nothing but air. He recalls Indri recounting how Brynjar had been murdered. It looked like the culprit appeared and disappeared within the room. Could the same thing have  happened to him, but instead of getting himself murdered, someone somehow broke in and stole the package’s contents?

He breaks into a cold sweat. He’s sure there was something in it, and it’s impossible to ‘accidentally’ break the magical seal in his sleep. He bites his lip and wipes the sweat off his brow. He takes the box and wraps the string around it again. He’ll just toss this off at the drop point and leave. Nothing good will come harbouring this accursed item around.

With that in mind he quickly cleans himself up and leaves within the hour. He hopes no one will be there to collect the package, because they will surely be able to tell it’s empty the moment they hold it.

Alar shakes off those thoughts and concentrates on making his way to the drop point over at Grand District. He’d have to rely on quick wits in the event that something goes wrong. On the upside, to create a commotion in the middle of the Grand District, no matter how hidden it might be would still attract attention. On the other, it depends on how skilled and quick the other party is.

Alar finds himself approaching the drop point. It’s another 15 minutes of walking from the center of the District before he’d reach. He checks the location as directed to him previously by Brynjar nervously, his eyes looking around. The Grand District is bustling, full of aristocrats, scholars and the wealthy. Occasionally he sees the middle class and once in a while, along with the lower class, mixing in with those of the upper class. It’s a scene he notices here and there, but most of them are gathered around the Imperial Chapel of the goddess Jord, working together to clean and dress the grand main statue of the goddess at the Chapel steps. One would find such a sight a rarity from the class division, but over the years, the Heiress’ passionate and kind influence had positively impacted the city.

Grand District used to be only for the wealthy, and it was an unspoken rule that no one lesser than a scholar was allowed into the District. Ever since the Heiress was allowed to roam outside the Palace, she had voluntarily come up to various people regardless of their class. The Empress had not been favourable to her actions initially, but with persuasion from her daughter, the Imperial family has been more open, even treading to the other two Districts. Commoners from the Urban District and soldiers from the Burgess District were also welcome into the Grand District, and even into the Public Palace Gardens, where it’s said the young Heiress does the gardening herself. Her instigation to mingle with all of the people had led the example and the city people of all backgrounds have begun to overlook class differences.

Such cultural shifts are slow to spread, but Alar can already see that things are changing. Alar had resigned from the Imperial army when the Heiress was still a toddler, but he having heard of such good things of the future Empress has him almost regretting the loss of chance to serve under such a person.  

While he ponders over this, a passerby comes up to Alar with a smile. The man is slightly startled at the approach and skittish from his plans and thinking for the day. Alar looks over the man and regards him suspiciously. The other has a plain and simple appearance, with average looks and modest clothing. He looks like a mild-mannered scribe or perhaps the attendant of a wealthy household and has an approachable and almost timid face. He is smiling rather broadly at Alar though, which unnerves him.

“Hello,” the man greets. Somehow, the smile spreads wider. “I am here to collect the package.”

“Excuse me?” Alar replies, raising an eyebrow. Acting ignorant may gain him some information from this stranger.

“The package, please,” the unnamed man repeats politely. His expression does not change in the slightest. He doesn’t look intimidating or anything special, but that smile puts Alar off. He decides not to be baited.

“Not sure what you’re talking about,” Alar says in an unfriendly manner and immediately walks away. He doesn’t want to be questioned and the stranger isn’t giving him a good vibe. Fortunately, he doesn’t follow Alar, allowing him to complete his job. Alar takes extra care to make sure he isn’t followed and eventually reaches the drop point.

The alley is surprisingly well kept but it’s the norm for the Grand District. It just makes the concealing of a package harder. After finding a decent spot to hide it, Alar quickly steps away from the area, eager to wash his hands off the job. It would probably be a good idea to get far away from the city and lay low as well.

He isn’t an ass to be thankful about a friend’s death but it helps to disconnect him from any pursuers of the package. Anyone might be able to connect Alar to Brynjar but he’s sure with how fishy his deceased friend was being, he should not have left traces of their contact. Since Alar has somehow messed this job up, it’s best he just leave and forget about it.

He blends himself into the crowd at the Imperial Chapel to stay out of sight while he plans what to do next, absentmindedly gazing at the marble statue. It was carved in the image of a voluptuous woman with golden hair and soil coloured skin. The priestesses and devotees had dressed her in furs and hide, placed flower crowns upon her head and decorated her with intricate golden jewelry. Her posture is regal as she stands, one foot in front of the other, an arm slightly raised with her hand holding the sun, the other placed gently on the head of a small doe by her side.

Alar is not a religious person, but at the moment he could do with a god’s blessing. The main gods of the Empire and the rest of Solveig are Jord who is the goddess of Sun, Earth and Life, together with her husband Dagar, the god of Light, Day and Justice. These two are praised by all in the realm, believed to be the ones who created Firarheim and all its dwellers. Dagar is the guardian and protector, the avatar of strength and skill so therefore almost all warriors including the Imperial Knights, Hallowed Templars and Divine Blades would naturally pray to him. Alar had prayed to him before, but ever since he resigned from the Templars, he hadn’t thought much about it.

A couple of jackdaws fly down to perch upon the marble sun that Jord’s statue is holding up. They playfully hop up the statue’s head and picked at the flower crowns. Watching them, Alar is reminded of the message he received anonymously last night on his way back. _Watch the crows_ , it had said.

Alar looks up at the sky again. Whether it is a coincidence or some divine sign, he sees a couple of crows flying to the southeast. The sight causes Alar to pause and consider, hesitating on the trustworthiness of the message and the possibility of what it could mean. He looks to the goddess statue again and stares for a long time, before he decides on his plans.

\---+---

It’s dusk when Alar is seated on a horse-drawn charabanc with other travellers heading for Jordis. The group is rather large, with three charabancs travelling together. The drivers are accompanied by two guards sitting on each of their sides, and a wagon of luggage and supplies accompanied the group. It is the cheapest form of transportation and the slowest, but compared to magically powered vehicles which are still far too expensive to manufacture, simpler modes of transport are still common and preferable. They would have several stops along the way, as it would take at least a full day or more to reach the next nearest town, Smith’s Brand.

Alar knows of the infamous Nest of Crows forest that is situated right beside said town. It is a vast and mysterious forest, untouched and stayed clear of by the officials and apparently revered by the townsfolk. Alar doesn’t know much else about it even though he’s visited the town a couple of times, but he wonders if the forest has anything to do with the anonymous message he received.

The other charabancs travelling with them are not far behind. Maybe changing carriages might help to ease him a bit. He’s still on edge with the face of the stranger clinging to his thoughts. He has the nagging feeling that he is still standing out too much, despite having concealed his weapons gauntlet and dressed down for travel.

When they finally stop for the day, the sun has already set, torches are lit and the charabanc drivers, who are also the ones leading the travelling group, have the guards and wagon drivers help to set up camp and bonfires. While the land is relatively more peaceful during current times, but there are still bandits who terrorize roads and ambush travellers. Wild animals also prowl the open wilderness, so it is a necessity to bring hired guards along.

The stop means a chance to eat, rest and mingle with the other travellers. Alar has already chosen to keep himself, as he is still plagued by worry and feeling rather restless. He had been in such a state throughout the journey that even a fellow passenger had asked if he was alright. Thankfully, now that they are in an open space compared to the small and cramped seats in the charabanc, Alar has the chance to breathe and stretch his body. He is after all, larger than the other locals whose natural statures are smaller and shorter.

He takes this chance to crawl into his sleeping bag and sleep. He feels mentally exhausted, and hopes that his anxiety would fade soon, or at least, by the time they reach the town. Alar feels a slight shiver run down his spine but ignores it, slowly drifting off to sleep.

In his dreams, an image of two ravens with jet black feathers emerges. They are perched atop a very large tree but it is dead, with dry, grey bark and empty of leaves. The sky behind them is dark but spotted with stars and the full moon hovering by. The ravens are large, and their eyes have the twinkle of human intelligence. Against the moon light, Alar can catch the sight of colour on their feathers, hints of purple and red, deep like blood.


	6. 01.05

The Archduchess of Wischard greets her niece with a relieved hug. “I am so relieved that you are safe, child,” Archduchess Gerd Eldottr says sincerely. She pulls away from Stjarna and pushes her hair away from her face to get a good look at her. Stjarna is still in bed and recovering from her fever and the ambush on the way to Edvin city, but it appears that she is already feeling better. “It has been a long time since I saw you… If I could, I would visit you in the Palace, but the Empress…”

The Archduchess clears her throat and aborts the subject, leaving an awkward silence. Stjarna laughs to break the tension, but she is truly grateful to receive the concern of her aunt. “Thank you Aunt Gerd. Fortunately the gods were watching over me,” Stjarna tells her modestly. Gerd nods with a smile. Almost the entire Empire would believe that. She is truly a blessed child.

The Archduchess turns to the attendant holding a tray and standing by the door. They come up to the bed where Stjarna is resting and serves her the porridge and tea that is set upon the tray. “Here, have this. I made it for you with some special herbs the best Ovates have recommended,” the Archduchess says hastily as she dismisses the attendant. 

The Archduchess Gerd is the younger cousin of the current Imperial Empress Frei. She was the former Crown Heiress, and her relationship with her older cousin can only be described as complicated, but there is little or no animosity between them. While they have a rather similar face, their personalities are the almost complete opposite.

Where the Empress is cold and stern with an iron will, the Archduchess is maternal and affectionate. Despite being married to her husband and has a son, Archduchess Gerd openly cares for her niece and dotes on her. Supposedly, the Archduchess had wanted a daughter, and had taken an immediate liking to Stjarna. When Stjarna was younger and visited the Archduchess’ manor to meet her for the first time, Gerd had wanted Stjarna to visit often and be playmates with her son Fjolnir, who was a year older. Unfortunately, as the Archduchess’ status is difficult, rumours of her intent circulated, and such visits were discouraged.

“My sincere thanks, Aunt,” Stjarna bows slightly, her smile bright and cheeks rosy. It is an appearance that is a far cry to how she looked on the first night Stjarna and the rest of her surviving entourage arrived in the city with the escort of a Mystic tribe’s warriors. The strange situation had puzzled the guards at the gates, but as soon as they saw the Imperial emblem, they were immediately allowed in. Those same Mystics however, were aloof and did not stay any longer than necessary. They conversed briefly with the exhausted looking Lieutenant before they left, and the Archduchess had ordered for the best healers to tend to their injuries.

It has been a week since then, and the Archduchess has already sent word to the Empress on Stjarna’s condition the day after their arrival. The Empress responded by sending another entourage, thrice as large as the previous and abandoning any form of discretion that was initially planned. Even the Court Magus had been sent over, and the new retinue should arrive within the next day. Unexpectedly, the Archduchess had received thanks from the Empress, which elevated the mood of the Archduchess’ household.

Meanwhile, Lieutenant Kole is nearly fully healed over a few days of rest. A day’s worth of meditation and prayer had cleansed his body of negative energy, poison and minor wounds, and has regained some of his mental strength. It had been a hard journey. It was unfortunate, but Captain Rerir is incapacitated for the time being. The poison had remained in his system for too long and paralyzed more than half his body even with the best aid. It would take a long time for the healers to bring him to full recovery. Many others were in the same state, unconscious, too injured, or deceased. 

Kole recalls the Heiress’ touch that had burned out most of the paralyzing poison from him. That calm look on her face and strength in her eyes when she reached out in order to heal him. She had seemed different then, but Kole can’t quite describe it. She reminded him of that boy who was with the giant man from his childhood.

On the other hand, the Mystics were another mystery. They had come from nowhere and sent their people to save them. Did they know about the Heiress’ presence in the carriage? How did they acquire such information? The Mystics are tribes of people who convene with nature and the wilderness, borrowing strength and powers from the environment, blending and becoming one with it. They are an elusive race, who prefer to keep away from Empire. Historically, the Empire and the Mystics had clashed numerous times over territory and eventually the animosity had reduced but they preferred to stay out of each other's’ way no matter the status of the other. It is an anomaly that they would intervene in their predicament.

Kole had asked the leader of the tribe who saved them, the same archer who had finished off and defeated the Deathshade. “Why are you helping us?”

The Mystic had regarded him with cold eyes and appeared entirely reluctant to even converse with him, but had begrudgingly replied, ”The Wolfravens sent us. They said it would be… ominous, if anything were to happen to the Star Child.”

Kole was confused by the reply, but from what he can gather, they were referring to the Heiress. He hadn’t thought that they would be interested in her either, but Kole would not look at the gift horse in the mouth. He had made the decision to accept the help readily, and the Mystic tribesmen helped to gather and dispose the bodies, healed some of their severely injured and carried them to the next town.

Once Kole had settled, he had also been informed by the Archduchess’ steward of the new retinue that would accompany them in their journey. Kole and the surviving few Knights of the original entourage will assimilate with the new group, but he will maintain his rank and be second in command. The steward also added that the Archduchess will be loaning a few of her personal elite guards as well. Kole’s lips had pressed tight in thought but made no remark aside from a nod of agreement. There had been nothing he could say.

During early noon, Kole visits the rest of his surviving squadron who are also mostly recovered. Seeing that they are at least able to get back on their feet, he asks the permission of the Archduchess to borrow a room for a briefing. The Archduchess is generous and grants him the permission, and with a respectful bow, Kole he gathers his able Knights - five Divine Blades and two Divine Magi - and gets them up to date. All of them still appear exhausted and wearing bandages and gauze. They had lost many of their peers and their captain is out of commission. While Kole is their lieutenant, his young age may not be favourably seen.

Even so, Kole has been named Lieutenant by the Empress herself who is personally invested in the army and would not disappoint her. Once Kole is done speaking, he looks to his Blades. “Any questions?”

“When will we resume our journey?” Astri, one of the five Divine Blades asks. She is a middle-aged woman with hazel hair, who specializes in bolstering strength skills and buffs that empowers her team. She is a crucial member of the squadron for her skills would be needed in a final stand. She is also a person who regards people based on their actions other than appearances or age. Kole is glad she survived.

“Once the new retinue arrives and the Heiress’ illness has stabilized, we will move out within the next few days. Be prepared and do not forget your meditation and training,” Kole reminds them.

“How is the Heiress? I heard she... set one of the assassins on fire,” one of the two Magi asks. Sveinn is a bespectacled young man, a few years older than Kole. A talent himself, he sets himself apart with his mature, stern face and rigid discipline. Kole shakes his head in response to the question.

“No one knows. It might be, but I didn’t see it myself. But right now she is well, and her personal attendant is by her side,” Kole replies. He remembers that the mentioned attendant had been knocked unconscious and admires her bravery to protect the Heiress. She had some decent training, but against a high classed assassin, she was of little help. Sveinn mutters something to the other Magus, Olve, but none of the rest ask any more questions.

“Since there are no other questions… “ Kole silently signals to Olve, who blinks in surprise before his expression immediately shows understanding. The Magus sets up a spell that soundproofs the area around them. The others tense and all of them huddle together to minimize the area. Kole asking for such a spell means that there is something important for him to discuss. 

The Lieutenant brings out an item covered in cloth. “I found this on some of the bodies. The Mystics who helped us out let me search through all the bodies, and a number of them had the same brooch.”

Everyone in the group is frozen as they stared at what was in Kole’s palm. It was a brooch with the emblem of the Wischard state, that is under the rule of the Archduchess. It is the size of a thumb, the emblem bearing a sun with thin rays of light set upon an open book.

“Possibility of this being planted?” It’s Eirik who asks this time, glancing at Astri and Katla. They both look back at him with a serious expression, but one can see the anxiety in their eyes.

“High, but we can’t completely disregard that the Archduchess might be involved too,” Kole replies.

“Especially with her record,” Tyra adds, her dark eyes glinting with suspicion. Havarr who stands beside her, grunts and shushes her, but she rolls her eyes and ignores him. 

“The Archduchess isn’t allowed her own army after the rebellion, but she does have her own security force. These could come from them,” Olve suggests thoughtfully.

“But we can’t do anything, can we? It’s just a suspicion, and with our small numbers, there’s not much we can do,” Katla explains.

“Did you report to the Empress about this?” Havarr asks, bushy moustache bristling as his fierce eyes bores a hole through Kole. He’s the eldest amongst them and hot-headed. He is rather strict on the rest of them, but is good-natured despite it.

“I sent a coded message. There might be people in the know who may be in the coming group,” Kole answers with a nod. “I’m just telling you now that this is what may be at work. I’d like you all to act like you do not know of this, no matter what. We can’t take any action until we know more. If possible, eavesdrop on the attendants. Just be discreet. Got it?”

The Knights answer positively in a unanimous matter.


	7. 01.06

Gan flips the pages of the book in his hand. It is traditionally made compared to the more popular form of text that can be read through the ComCrystal. The cover is made of sheepskin, the pages made of thin and fine paper. Production of such books has slowed due to the resources and costs needed, therefore the Crystallized text has become more common.

Perhaps Gan is a traditionalist. He is fond of the physical book’s texture, the crisp scent of the paper, the artistic script of the writing. As a child, Gan had wanted to be a writer, or even just a scribe. He enjoys writing and his mentors had humoured his fascination and interest for it with pens, inks and quills.

Blaer and Heithr had gifted him with a calligraphy set just last year. Gan had been so happy, he dragged them to one of the finer restaurants in the city. The two of them had protested hard, knowing how costly it was, but Gan had been equally stubborn to pay for their meals that he even threatened them with the cold shoulder until they gave in. He hadn’t minded having to work harder for the next two weeks to earn back what they had spent that night.

Gan does odd jobs for a living. He does work as a librarian, a writer of independent scholarly articles or fictional stories, and even helps out cleaning at the temples. He likes to keep himself busy and his mind active, but at the same time, he can’t focus on one thing for too long except for when he reads or writes. Blaer does music and poetry for both work and passion. He’d play instruments for stage plays, writes music for the songstresses and sometimes busks at the city centre to pass the time. He sometimes relays Gan’s stories in poetry or song form, and those are popular with the children.

Meanwhile Heithr is the one who has a stable job amongst them and is Blaer’s beloved. They have been together since two winters ago, and the both of them have been joined at the hip since then. Though Heithr was apprehensive of Gan initially, all three of them have become close enough to be family, including Heithr’s father. Blaer and Gan would also sometimes help Heithr and his father out at their apothecary, the only remaining legacy of Heithr’s mother. He is the youngest among the three, but is arguably the most mature and responsible, albeit he displays a childish streak at times. Both of them are complete opposites; Blaer is night-skinned with short, bluish-black hair, his features square and masculine, while Heithr is morn-skinned with long and fine platinum hair paired with soft, effeminate features. Yet, they fit each other perfectly in Gan’s eyes.

When there is not much work for him, Gan doesn’t stay idle, choosing to spend his time reading books or write. The book that he is reading at the moment is the third and latest updated edition of the discoveries in the Vanir Ruins. Gan has read the previous two editions over his childhood, immediately choosing books on the subject after visits from his Friend.

There are several Vaniran ruins throughout Firarheim, but a concentration of them can be found in the central deserts in Solveig. The vast desert is simply named the ‘Vanir Desert Ruins’, where numerous archaeological sites are located at. Gan’s eyes scan the words across the pages, eager to learn more.

The Vanir are the ancient and original race of Menn. As they are the direct creation of the gods, they hold a lot of magic, wisdom and longevity compared to Menn of current times. They served the gods and sent offerings to them, and when they died, they also devote their bodies to the gods as well. The book goes on to describe what possible steps the funeral rituals entail, and he can see similarities of traditions back then and now. Discoveries of extremely well kept tombs have been found buried deep under the desert, with intact clothing, jewelry and even decorated hair and painted nails. However, there are no records of names with them, so it is unknown of their identity or status, so most content written in books are mere speculation.

The latest site that the chroniclers have discovered is a shrine although no one has been able to decipher who it is dedicated to. The book is written by the Imperial Chronicler’s assistant who tails the Chronicler’s every step and notes down every discovery. The shrine is made of stone and glass, an unrecognisable figure set in the middle and two four-legged beasts circling around it. A detailed illustration of the shrine is printed on a page. Gan stares at the picture, attempting to spot anything that he might know about but the drawing itself is unclear. All he can tell is that the two canine-like beasts circling the figure are most likely dogs or wolves. There are scripts carved into the stone at the base, and the chroniclers have presumed it to be written in the old Vanir language Vinroeda. Unfortunately, the current known vocabulary of the language is short and there hasn’t been a proper translation for most of the found texts yet.

Gan wishes he is able to see these sites for himself. He wants to see and feel the atmosphere, touch the broken stones and read the ingrained magic that has faded from their surface. There must be something that Menn can discover from these locations that the chroniclers have not discovered and are taking a painstakingly slow pace to fully study.  Gan’s memory has always been exceptionally good, so he hates the feeling of having a missing memory, the intangible sensation having plagued him his whole life. 

With a heavy sigh, Gan closes his book. He hears footsteps and the crunching of grass from behind him. Blaer sits beside Gan on the rock by the shore. In his hand is a black painted lyre with blue and gold decorations. The waters of Skali lake is clear as crystal. No matter the time of day, it presents a beautiful sight with its surface sparkling from the reflection of the sun.

“What are you sighing about?” Blaer asks, folding his legs under him. Gan shrugs, not offering an answer. The silence continues for a moment, both of them staring at the water. Blaer has always been understanding and patient of Gan’s lack of vocal responses. Eventually, Gan speaks, slow and soft.

“Have you thought... about leaving Isfridr or Hafgrimr?”

Blaer looks at him with a puzzled expression but thinks about it. “Hm, I guess, yeah? I’d love to take a holiday to south Solveig. Heard it’s warm and toasty there… Are you interested?” Blaer grins, his curiosity piqued.

“Yes,” Gan replies simply. “I want to see the Vanir ruins.”

“Oh,” Blaer isn’t as surprised as Gan thought he would be. “Is that place even open for visitors?”

“No…” Gan’s face fell. His eyes stare at his feet. Then, “Heard the University is a tourist attraction.”

“Oh yeah! And they have skaldic courses there!” Blaer adds excitedly. “There’s that guy… he’s both a poet and a historian, what’s his name… I think he’s married to the Eldian Court’s Magus.”

“Bragi Gunnlodson?” Gan suggests. “I didn’t think you’d know about him.”

“Are you kidding? He’s published some poetry under another name, but they’re really good! I’ve tried performing some of them,” Blaer replies with a broad smile, strumming the strings of the lyre. “Heithr likes some of them too, though he says it’s only because I performed it.”

Gan snorts but smiles anyway. Heithr spoils Blaer with compliments a little too much sometimes, but both of them are still love smitten even after two years.

“So, when do you want to go? I’m not sure if we can afford it at the moment,” Blaer says remorsefully, patting at his pockets. While both of them are working and living under a small house together, the costs of living in Isfridr is high, and their odd jobs can only earn them so much. Especially for Blaer, who enjoys splurging on his loved ones, tend to have the lightest wallet by the end of each month. Gan shakes his head and assures him.

“I have savings, we can go,” he says. “But we’d probably have to camp outdoors mostly.”

“Wait, since when did you have savings?”

“I made savings accounts for both of us in case of emergencies,” Gan says. Blaer is terrible with money. His best friend smiles sheepishly, but it’s clear he’s touched. Gan has always looked out for his well-being.

“Oh. That’s really sweet.”

“You’re welcome.”

Blaer thinks for a moment, then asks, “Can Heithr come along?”

Gan’s answer is immediate, and he responds with an amused smile, “If he wants to.”

“Thanks, Ma!” Blaer grins again as Gan huffs at the name. He had expected the question since the both of them is inseparable, but Heithr has more responsibilities than them. Ultimately it would be up to the young man and they’d have to respect his father’s decision too.

They sink back to a comfortable silence, both of them staring out at the lake. Gan’s eyes stray downward to his feet, swinging them idly. It seems like Blaer realizes that Gan has something on his mind. After being by each others’ side growing up together at the orphanage, Blaer knows Gan tends to stare at his feet when he does. The redhead would often withdraw and clam up if anyone presses him to speak, so Blaer has learned to be patient and follow his pace. Eventually, Gan speaks up.

“Blaer, do you… really believe the stories I tell you?”

“Stories? The ones you write?”

“No, the ones I tell you. Since we were kids,” Gan meets Blaer’s eyes. The orange of his irises gleam in the sunlight, like dark suns.

“Yes,” Blaer says with no hesitance. “I’ve always believed you. It just made sense to me.”

“I was a child. I could be making it up,” Gan retorts doubtfully.

“I know you’re really smart. You’re a genius. But you’re too good to lie, and the way you told your stories…” Blaer smiles as he reminisced. “It was like you really believed them. Sometimes, I would think that you were there when they all happened.”

“That doesn’t make them real,” Gan responds with a slight furrow of his brow.

“I know… but…” Blaer sighs and scratches the back of his head, appearing to have some difficulty trying to explain. Eventually, he shrugs. “I just believe you.”

A short silence hangs over them. Gan still seems to have a hard time believing him. “Is it really that simple?” Gan asks, his expression softening. He feels a little strange to receive such faith from someone.

“Of course! You’re my brother, Gan. No matter what, I’ll back you up. Heithr can be mean with his words, but he believes in you too. Remember that,” Blaer tells him with a serious expression that Gan hadn’t expected. It makes Gan a little embarrassed. He laughs softly, earning a pleased grin from his best friend.

“...Thanks, Kvasir.”

Blaer grimaces and punches him lightly in the shoulder. “Ugh, I told you not to call me that! I’m gonna be mad if you keep doing that,” Blaer grumbles. Gan shows off a rare, playful grin.

“Right, sorry. It’s just fun to see you get mad sometimes. You grin too much,” Gan teases. The other rolls his eyes and slaps Gan’s shoulder again. 

“Sure, whatever,” Blaer huffs, trying to hide his smile and pulls them up to their feet. “Come on, Mr. Bjarga invited us over for dinner. Heithr’s cooking.”


	8. 1.07

Alar asks for the estimated time of arrival to the town. They’ve left their last camp a few hours ago at dawn, and the hot sun is bearing down on them. His legs are already cramped thanks to the narrow seats, and though he knows it’s not wise, he’s looking forward to the next brief stop. 

“Once we’re past the Nest of Crows, we’ll get there by dusk,” the passenger beside him replies, giving Alar a pitiful look. Alar is very much a larger man compared to the locals, so his long legs are clearly in an uncomfortable position. 

Alar takes a peek out of the carriage and sees the cloudy sky overhead. The sun is barely hidden behind the clouds, shining brightly without care. The sky is clear, no signs of anything, not even a faraway bird or an insect in sight. Alar gulps, still uneasy from the dream of the ravens he had last night. He hopes they’ll get to the town soon without anymore delays.

To Alar’s conflicted relief, the carriages stop for a short break after another hour of journey. The horses slow to a stop by the tree line of  Nest of Crows, where the passengers alight to stretch their legs. Alar is doing the same, letting out a relieved moan as he stretches out his legs and massages his knees the moment he steps out of the charabanc. There is a shrine nearby, and it appears to be the usual stop for travellers.

Almost immediately, Alar sees a number of the fellow travellers lining up to the shrine with strange offerings in hand. He notices a mother and child happily set neat bags at the base of the shrine, only to show its contents of dead rodents, grain and worms. Alar is startled by the sight, an odd offering for gods. He asks one of them who is standing in line, “What are those offerings for? Which god is that?”

“They’re feed for the ravens and crows, it’s called Nest of Crows for a reason. This shrine is for the Raven deities that reside inside.”

Alar isn’t familiar with this deity. He might have glanced past them in his previous travels, but he never really paid attention. He looks up at the trees commenting, “I don’t see any birds around.”

“They come out when they like, but they always pick at the offerings clean. Funny creatures, these birds. But sharp as a knife,” the person warns. “It’s best to treat them well. These birds can recognise you if you don’t, and they can be very unwelcoming.”

Alar gives a vaguely impressed look and studies the shrine. He’s aware that corvids are smart, but not that intelligent. He wonders how the deities of the forest came to be since they are not part of the primary pantheon of the gods. 

The shrine is shaped like a large birdhouse of sticks, about the size of a small child, with the deity statue housed within. The statue is crudely made out of stone, and while it’s not a masterpiece, one can still make out the features. The statue is of two large ravens facing each other in flight. In between them is a ssmall silhouette of a man. The man’s features are barely existent, while more attention is put on the two ravens. They are lightly coloured with dark purples, blues and black. The man is completely uncoloured, left as an ashy grey colour of the stone.

The group of travellers also take this time to eat and look around. The drivers had cautioned the passengers as they alighted to stay clear of the forest. A curious child of one of the passengers had asked why, but was answered with a simple answer of “Bad luck.”

But isn’t this forest supposed to be the residence of a deity? Why would it be bad luck to enter them? Alar had wondered but did not voice it out. As he’s sitting with a group of novice adventurers who are travelling to the town for work, he notices a small figure entering the forest.

He quickly turns his head to look and realizes it’s the same child who had asked the warning driver a question. Alar pats on one of the men’s shoulders hurriedly.

“Hey, did you guys see that? A kid went into the forest,” Alar says, still straining his neck to catch sight of the child.

“What? That’s no good…” the adventurer mutters, looking a little nervous as all of them turn to look as well.

“Why? Isn’t it supposed to be protected by some deity?” Alar asks this time.

“Exactly, but from what I heard, those deities don’t like trespassers,” another responds. Alar frowns at the answer, unsure what to think of it. Soon enough, the group hears a man and a woman calling out a name.

“Kare! Where are you?!” the woman yells. She is asking the other passengers while the man asks the drivers and guards. Alar grimaces. He doesn’t want to be involved and sits back down. His ears however, continue to listen.

“He went into the forest? By Mana’s light, please, did anyone see exactly where?” both man and woman ask when one of the guards told them what they saw. No one came forward. The parents continue to ask and beg while Alar ignores them. The novices do the same, though it’s clear they are uncomfortable with their decision.

Eventually, the parents give up in their questioning and they hear the man tell his wife to stay. “I’ll go look for him. You can go with them to the town. I’ll make sure to find him.”

“But to trespass into the forest…!”

“It’s alright, I will find him. I’m.. I’m sure the Raven deities will understand.”

The crowd murmurs amongst themselves. The drivers have already called the passengers back into the charabancs, decidedly ignoring the plight of the family. The woman remains standing in her position with a difficult expression, her feet unable to stay still. Her eyes continue to search the other passengers in silent plea for help. Eventually, her eyes land on Alar and she mouths a word to him.

“Please,” she says, her voice so broken and quiet but Alar hears it. His resolve breaks. He lets out a frustrated sigh and walks towards the woman with heavy steps.

“You go to the town. I’ll look for your kid and your husband,” Alar growls. Curse his foolish and righteous Templar heart! Can’t leave a helpless stranger alone. 

The woman clings to his hand with a tearful, grateful expression. “Thank you.. Thank you!”

Alar grunts his answer and jogs past the first few lines of trees. Following the direction where he last saw the child, Alar keeps his eyes peeled, looking for a trace of any small figure. It is still daylight, but the shade of the trees are darker than he first realized. The trees are heavy with leaves, the trees are high but the branches are countless, spreading towards each other and obscuring most of the sunlight. The lack of natural sound aside the crunch of grass under his feet and the rustling of leaves is eerie; it’s no wonder no one dares to delve into the forest. Rather than a deity’s abode, it feels more like a haunted wilderness.

A couple of footsteps behind him is picked up by Alar’s trained and sensitive ears. With a hard shake of his left arm, the gauntlet around it  triggers its mechanism and deploys a shield mounted on it. Alar pulls on the handle that extrudes from under the shield, withdrawing a collapsible sword and immediately swings it towards the sound.

“W-wait!” a familiar voice squeaked. Alar stops the swing and glares at the two people who are standing stunned from surprise and fear. They are from the group of amateur adventurers he’d sat with earlier. He hadn’t asked for their names and doesn’t plan to.

“What are you doing here?” Alar asks, but doesn’t lower his sword. He’s still apprehensive. The forest is far too strange for his liking and it reeks of a trap. To be honest, he’s already regretting trying to be a hero. Stupid kid.

“We, we just wanted to help. We saw the child go into the forest too. It’s on us if anything happened to you or the child, even if this is the Nest of Crows,” the one closest to Alar’s blade explains. The other nods in agreement. Both of them look quite young and naive. Perhaps they have gone through a few fights, but Alar doubts they have experienced anything serious. He’s noticed the lack of scars and calluses on their hands, and their gear are just fairly worn as if they haven’t seen much use. 

“...Alright,” Alar finally relaxes, but his guard remains up. He sighs and scratches his chin to lessen the tension. “I saw him running this way but I don’t see any trace of him anymore. No idea about the father either.”

“We can split up and look for him,” the same one suggests. His black hair is tied neatly in a bun. There is only a plain war axe at his waist.

“I’m a Wanderer, I may be able to track him,” the other has shorter, lighter coloured hair but darker skin. He’s lankier and lightly geared with two daggers on each side of his waist.  

“That’s great. I’ll depend on you then,” Alar says with a shrug. He is still scanning the area. There are still no sounds of life. Neither of the two has mentioned it. Either they are ignoring it or they’re ignorant. Alar doesn’t like both possibilities. He decides to go with them anyway as the Wanderer’s skill is useful. It doesn’t mean he trusts them but they still have to find the lost boy and Alar doubts he can get out of the forest easily either.

The Wanderer kneels and touches the ground. He activates his ability and takes a moment to process the information. Alar and the other young man watches him, waiting for the result.

“That’s funny,” the Wanderer says with a frown after a good minute. He looks to his black-haired friend. “I can’t trace anything.”

“Did he completely disappear?”

“Not just that…” the Wanderer replies, almost muttering to himself. “I didn’t trace  _ anything _ . As if there’s nothing in this forest.”

Alar doesn’t say a word as he confirms that the forest  _ is _ strange. He starts to feel anxious and the nagging feeling he had from yesterday is back again. They really should get out of here.

“Let’s just explore and find the kid,” Alar says restlessly. “Or we can get out and get more people to help. We shouldn’t have come in here.”

“Ah - wait!” the Wanderer suddenly jumps up to his feet, startling his friend. “You over there! Stop right there!” He draws one of his daggers and points at something several feet from them. Alar only sees a tree, the same as all the others.

However, a person peeks out from behind it. Alar’s eyes narrow at the unrecognisable person and he takes a step back apprehensively. The person keeps their eyes on them and smiles broadly, with their plain and average appearance.

“Hello,” the stranger greets them and stretches their smile into a grin.


	9. 1.08a

Stjarna watches her reflection in the mirror while Gna brushes and styles her hair. Her appearance is vastly different compared to her people. Her skin is fairer, more like the sand of the Vaniran Ruin desert than the colour of soil that most of the locals have. Where the natives have hair and eyes the colour of the earth and nature, Stjarna’s are unique. Her long, wavy hair takes the colour of stormy skies, a dark, heavy purple, while her eyes are of a similar shade but sparkling like a pair of amethyst stones. Many people compliment and admire her features but personally, Stjarna thinks they are rather isolating. She isn’t a ungrateful at all, but being placed on a pedestal can be alienating and lonely, especially with her status as the Imperial Heiress. 

Likewise, Gna also admires her features and would always take enjoyment in styling Stjarna’s hair. This is her closest confidante, someone who’s watched and protected her since she entered the Palace. The attendant is only a few years older than her, so she feels more like an older sister to Stjarna. Since two years ago, the Imperial Mother has Gna sent away a number of times for defensive training to be included in the attendant’s duties. Over that time, Gna has only managed to be a beginner rogue, with basic moves and proficiency with her knife. At the same time, Stjarna continued to improve her control and knowledge of magic under the Court Magus Idunna’s tutelage. However, her sickness then came and it felt like everything had fallen apart.

Stjarna quietly asks Gna if she’s fully recovered. The attendant had protected her with her life and was knocked unconscious. Thankfully, Gna was not heavily injured and Stjarna had breathed in relief upon hearing the good news.

“I will continue to train and build up my skills so I can protect you better, your Highness,” Gna says with a determined smile. She lowers her eyes and Stjarna can read Gna’s expression and feels the heaviness in her own heart. Stjarna curls her hands into fists, the gems of her gloves shining momentarily. The Imperial Court Magus had personally sought and crafted the gems herself and embedded them in enchanted gloves for the Heiress’ daily use. These gemstones are a faded pink in colour, translucent with specks of white in it. A six-rayed star mark is present on its surface, which is the unique feature of the rare and magically concentrated gemstone.

Court Magus Idunna had made these pair of gloves with the gems in order to control Stjarna’s magic. Aster gems have properties that can hold or refract magic within it and dispersing it outwards. They act like a dam to restrict and control the flow of Stjarna’s wild magic so that it would minimise the damage on herself and others. It had helped tremendously; without it, Stjarna could most likely incinerate an entire acre with her power.

After a moment’s pause, Gna looks back at the Heiress through the mirror with fondness and finishes her task on Stjarna’s hair. She takes the Imperial Sun-Star tiara on the vanity and places it delicately over the younger woman’s head.

“All done, your Highness.”

“Many thanks, Gna.”

Stjarna has already been fully informed by both Gna and Lieutenant Kole Brokson. They are in truly in debt to the Mystic tribes and vows to bring it up to her Imperial Mother. She has learned about the strained relationship between the Empire and the Mystics and had thought about tightening their bonds. Perhaps that can be something she may work on in the future. 

The Heiress steps to the main Great Hall to meet with the Archduchess. She sees her aunt seated on a luxurious couch with pastries and tea set upon the coffee table. The Archduchess’ face lit up once she sees her niece enter and beckons her to sit by her side.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” Gerd says, genty taking Stjarna’s hand in hers and smiling warmly. “It’s been so long since we met and talked like this. I wanted to invite your cousin Fjolnir but it was too sudden and he’s occupied with his thesis in the University.”

“It’s alright, Aunt. I will come visit again as soon as I am well,” Stjarna assures, squeezing her hand back as gently. Gerd sighs and turns to pour tea into Stjarna’s cup. She then adds a spoonful of honey and stirs it for her despite Stjarna’s objections.

“My sister - Your mother, Imperial Empress has informed me of your illness, but I had sensed that there was more to it. Would you be so kind as to tell your aunt the full event? To send yourself to Sol village, is both drastic and strange, and it worries me greatly. When I heard about the attack I was so worried… For such a thing to happen on your way here. It clearly suggests that it’s a premeditated ambush targeting the Imperial family.”

Stjarna smiles and nods. Her leave for Sol village was not a secret, but the timing and route was not declared. It was an internal secret, with only a handful of the Empress’ close confidants in the know and was disseminated on the day of the journey itself in order to minimise the spread of the information. It was not impossible for someone to gain the information but it would be difficult with how much care and precaution the Empress takes, using secret messages, codes and magic. Yet, she was still ambushed. A majority of her guards were also killed, and it hurt her heart to know so many died or injured just to protect her. She grips her aunt’s hand as she holds back her emotions. The gems on her gloves glow bright into a fiery orange before it dims as she exhales.

Seeing the distressed girl, the Archduchess does not hesitate to pull Stjarna into a hug and strokes her head gently. Stjarna immediately stiffens from the gesture but soon relaxes into it. Her own Imperial Mother is rather standoffish and aloof so affectionate and intimate such as these are somewhat foreign to her, but Stjarna knows she cares. She just isn’t as physical and displays her love in other ways. She appreciates the hug from her aunt nonetheless.

“Let’s have some cakes. I remember you like the fireberry cheesecake the last time you were here,” Gerd invites, trying to lighten the mood. They chat and talk about how Stjarna has been doing the past years aside from her illness, but soon enough the topic returns to current events and Stjarna.

Unable to avoid it, Stjarna grips her teacup and sips the beverage slowly. She sighs and leans back in her chair slightly. Perhaps it is best to just talk about it and let it go. She places the cup back on the saucer and begins to recount the incident as the Archduchess leaned in to listen. 

That night, Stjarna was half-conscious. Her head hurt, her body hot and soaked in sweat. She remembers having difficulty breathing, smothered by the fever and her internal organs feeling swollen from the heat.

That was her everyday life the past year. Half-comatosed, fevered and bedridden.  Her memories of it all were very vague and most of them unpleasant. She was fortunate to have people taking care of her and staying by her side.

For that particular night however, Stjarna remembers it clearly. She was having a high fever and had slipped in and out of consciousness the entire day. She remembers hearing her Imperial Mother’s voice, Gna, her mentor Idunna, and other chatter she could not make out. It was night when she finally opened her eyes and gained most of her cognizance, her eyes slowly blinking blearily and looked around. When she looked to the window, it was open, the light and translucent curtain was swaying in the wind. The sky outside is dark; it was nighttime, but Stjarna was not sure how late it was into the night. The waxing moon peeked out from behind the dark clouds, but there were no stars. It felt like a lonely night.

There were Imperial guards standing by at the corners of her room, two attendants by her bedside, and two Imperial magi standing ready at the foot of her bed. However, they all had their eyes closed and were nodding off,  as if asleep. It was a strange and almost comical sight, but clearly not normal. Stjarna wanted to call out to one of them, but she was still weakened, and her throat could only let out a quiet rasp. She attempted to move, but it felt like she was paralyzed. She recognised that it was a spell.

Something was terribly amiss.

It was only when one of the guards dropped their weapon and began to make choking noises did Stjarna notice it. A dark shadow was curled around the guard. The guard had woken up, but he was helpless; the shadow wrapped around him like sticky fog and tendrils of darkness curled around his limbs and throat. More tendrils emerged from the shadow that looked like a stickly thin man which slithered into every orifice of the guard’s head.

The guard struggled vainly, but the noises he made were too soft. The others were still asleep, under some sort of spell. Stjarna was paralysed as well, and she could only watch on helplessly. The shadowy creature appeared to be sucking the life force out of the guard. As every second passed, the guard’s complexion grew paler, his cheeks sunken and his eyes dull. Meanwhile the creature’s shadowy, vague form began to solidify, and appeared more like an unnaturally thin man with tendrils from its back and horns atop its head.

Stjarna had realised then that the creature was not a man, but a Speglun.

Its form was just a silhouette but it was clearer than its former shadowy self. It tossed the dried, sunken corpse of the guard and proceeded to do the same to the next guard. The creature took its time, as if it was leisurely going through a buffet while Stjarna could not do a thing. She kept struggling, pushing herself to try and break free of the paralysis even though it sent piercing pain through her body on top of the feverish ache that was already sapping her energy.

She remembers that she had grit her teeth so hard, her eyes were hot with tears and had let out a choked sob. It was then that the Speglun turned to her while it was feeding on its second meal. This time, having siphoned enough energy, the creature was nearing its real form - it was greyish black but its features can be seen. It was tall, with a skeleton body covered in what seems like rocks or crystals. A skeletal face with fanged teeth and greenish orbs in its eye sockets faced her. 


	10. 1.08b

“Awake?” Stjarna recalls the distorted voice that was piercing and shrill.  It had sounded strange in her ears, and mildly felt the effects that she had learned in her studies that the Speglun had. It can persuade the hearts of Menn.

Once the word was spilled from the Speglun, the rest of the people in the room began to rouse from their enchanted sleep.

The attendant beside her was the first to speak, but she had only seen Stjarna awake. Her exclaim of relieved joy was short lived when the guards and magi in the room roared out in surprise when they realized the uninvited guest in the room.

Stjarna was terrified. She watched, frozen from fear and paralysis as the Speglun tore into all who were present in the room. With each meal it grew stronger, its body larger and solid and heavy. Its tendrils swiped and stabbed into her guards and attendants. The magi in the room were no match especially when they were caught off guard. No one had expected a Speglun to infiltrate the city, much less the Palace.

No one was prepared. Everyone but Stjarna were killed within minutes, their life forces drained, bodies eaten and minds ravaged. All that while Stjarna had laid motionlessly in her bed, hot tears spilling from her eyes and quiet whimpers stuck in her throat. The Speglun approached her with a sinister smile and that was a visage Stjarna could never forget. It had no muscles to smile, but somehow its crystallised, skeletal face gave a sneering smirk that taunted and mocked her fear.

“Your Highness!” Banging on her door, but it appeared that no one could come in. Hope came and went within a second. Stjarna choked in her tears.

The mocking laugh from the Speglun both incensed and frightened her. There was an aura around it that gave a freezing, nauseating feeling. The aura’s effect grew stronger as it approached closer and Stjarna could feel herself tremble despite the paralysis.

“Saved the best for last,” the creature purred, its voice crackling in distortion like static. A bony finger pointed to her throat and to her chest. “So much magic… Truly a fortune to have been led to you.”

Stjarna remembers shutting her eyes. Her fever had suddenly spiked as if in response to the Speglun’s words. Her body burned and it felt like she was scorching. The nauseating aura around the creature made her want to vomit. Her magic was reacting to it and it made her want to retch violently.

The Speglun’s finger brushed her chin.

And it shrieked.

Stjarna’s eyes snapped open and saw flames bursting out from her. Her body felt lighter, as if the fire had burned the weight off. Stjarna finally pushes herself up into a sitting position, panting hard. The paralysis spell was burned away. The Speglun had backed away from her, staring agape and in shock as its skeleton fingers are set ablaze, the fire steadily spreading down its hand and arm.

“You!!” the creature screeched, the green orbs in its sockets shrinking and displaying fear. “How are you one of them?!”

It tried to put out the fire with all sorts of means but to no avail. Stjarna could see it casting spells, attempting to slap away the fire physically, but the blaze continued to spread, until the creature was writhing on the floor. Its piercing cry was deafening, drowning out the cries and banging from outside her room.

Stjarna stared at the dying Speglun, stunned. But in its last dying throes, the Speglun crawled onto its knees and lunged at her.

Stjarna remembers screaming. She remembers she’d put her hands up in self-defence and hiding her eyes behind them. She didn’t remember using her magic. She hadn’t had the energy to even do anything with it. There was only light. Bright, white light. Warm and vast and comfortable, like a warm bath in winter.

But her memory of that night stopped there.

When she woke up, Stjarna was told that it was three days after the incident. And miraculously, her symptoms had lessened and her fever disappeared. Stjarna is still unwell, but her symptoms were no longer as severe. No one spoke to her about the incident that night until Stjarna asked her visiting mother.

The Heiress finally sighs as she finishes her recollection. She reaches out for another drink of her tea while she stares at it in a daze. The Archduchess herself is stunned from the story. She does not know how much of what her niece told her is true, but it matched the report that was given to her by both the Empress and her own informants. A Speglun had infiltrated the Palace… That would have been a calamity if it wasn’t contained.

“I am glad you are alright,” Gerd says. “Thank you for telling me. I’m sorry to have pushed you for it.”

Stjarna shakes her head and smiles. “You didn’t force me. It was good to talk it out to someone. But I do feel rather dizzy now. May I be excused, Aunt Gerd?”

“Of course, my child! Go on, take as much rest as you need,” the Archduchess urges, gently pulling the young girl up to her feet and escorts her back to her room.

Stjarna thanks her aunt once more and collapses onto her bed the moment she is alone in her room. She had already sent Gna away as she really needed some time alone. The fear from that incident is still present in her memory. She shudders again and grips her pillow.

She had told her aunt what she knows. But she hadn’t told anyone everything. What Stjarna has kept secret are her dreams when she was unconscious.

Strange dreams of a woman and a man. She was unable to see their face clearly, but they are familiar. They were pleasant dreams, but they not particularly special. The dreams were short, and Stjarna does not remember doing anything significant. The two people were just there in her dreams, and while their faces were vague, they feel regal and otherworldly. It was almost scary, and Stjarna remembers her hesitance of moving towards them.

But… they had felt warm and approachable, similar to the light that had blanketed her on that terrifying night. 

It felt like she was finally home.

-+-

“Hello,” the stranger greets.

Alar doesn’t recognise this person, but something is familiar about them. It’s a woman who’s appeared before them, and possibly one of the passengers in one of the carriages he was in. She has the same smile as the passerby who asked for the package back in Arinn’s Grand District. It is so eerily similar that it is unnerving. Alar subtly moves into a defensive position, ready to withdraw his weapons. The other two are oblivious, but the Wanderer is more apprehensive.

“Miss, are you lost? We’re looking for a lost boy, too,” the black-haired man asks.

This person looks at him with a blank look but then looks back to Alar, completely ignoring the rest. She holds the same unwavering smile. “The package was empty. Where is it?”

Alar licks his dry, chapped lips, and feels a bead of sweat roll down the side of his face. He knows this person is odd. Something is strange about them. The other two looks at him questioningly too. “I don’t know, it was stolen or something. I wouldn’t know how to break past those seals,” Alar says truthfully, but he doubts this woman or whoever it is, would accept it. The fact that the client or whoever, tracked him down like this is rather expected, but to follow him here in this mysterious forest? And there are two other people here… but looking from an outsider’s view, the group of them can be assumed to be allies.  Alar has put these amateur adventurers in danger.

The woman stares at him, but her expression is still blank despite the smile. This person does not have a normal aura. A too plain appearance, and Alar cannot even gauge their physical or magical strength. No weapons, no muscles, no magical accessory, and yet they are confronting Alar like this in a forest with nowhere to go.

“No normal person should have been able to open it,” The woman’s head tilts to the side. “But… it is in you. How is that?”

In him? What is she talking about? “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re saying, miss.”

“You took it. You  _ absorbed  _ it,” she says flatly. Her black eyes harden with mild curiosity and anger. Alar senses something as she steps forward. “And now you’ve ruined all our plans.”

_ Danger! _ Alar pulls the sword out from his gauntlet and deploys the collapsible shield once again. He rushes forward in front of the two novices and raises the shield just in time to block an attack out of nowhere comes. It’s a heavy hit from above that strikes hard enough to make Alar’s knees nearly buckle. His old knee injury screams at him, and Alar uses all his strength to shove off the attacker and swings his blade at them.

The novices cry out in surprise but they immediately withdraw their weapons as well. The Wanderer wastes no time in lunging in for a strike but the woman turns her eyes to the young man and her irises glow red. The Wanderer stops in his tracks, frozen and staring agape at the woman who is still smiling. His expression is of extreme terror as he takes trembling steps backwards. Then he turned to his friend with a grimace.

“H-hey are you okay?” the black-haired man asks, but it’s clear he knows something is wrong. His hand grips his axe tightly and slightly raises it, ready to defend himself. 

The Wanderer does not reply. Instead he moves towards the axe-wielder. But his movements are unordinary and like a puppet, jerky with what seems like an involuntary hitch in between steps. Alar blinks and in that moment, the Wanderer attacks his friend! He had moved so fast, with a skill far beyond what Alar had initially gauged him with. That is definitely not the Wanderer’s own strength. 

Alar glances at the woman who stands unmoving, still smiling with her hands by her side. However, her eyes gleam red. She must have used some sort of magic.

Somehow the axe-wielder manages to block but not for long. The Wanderer strikes again and again, continuously lunging at him with both daggers. His face is still grimaced and it looks as if each movement pains him. The black-haired axe wielder is stabbed in the side while trying to defend and he vomits blood. He is no match for this enhanced puppet.

Alar takes this chance to attack the woman. He has no idea what this woman is capable of, but if she can cast a mind or body control spell like that, she must definitely be a magus of black magic. But while she may be a magus, she has high agility as well. She dodges all of his sword strikes with ease, her footwork smooth and composed as if she is dancing backwards. It only infuriates Alar with each attack he tries to connect.

The strange woman’s smile widens into a face-splitting grin. The expression causes Alar to gasp as her red eyes meet his and he feels his body freeze.

“No!” Alar roars and bolsters his breath and strength. Internally he reads out a prayer to the god Dagar, following the training he’s had as a Hallowed Templar to strengthen his mental fortitude. Fortunately his training and affinity with light magic makes it harder for black magic skills to affect him. The woman’s strange controlling magic will have little effect on him, as long as he does not run out of stamina.

“A Hallowed Templar…” the woman utters, and for the first time her expression changes to one of disgust. 


End file.
